The peaceful coexistence of intellect and faith

Published: Friday, September 20, 2013 at 03:40 PM.

My parents met in the registration line at seminary. Both had, in college, met international students from the Middle East, and felt called to missions. Their mutual interest for Arab peoples and cultures sealed the promise together.

When the little California Baptist church ordained my father in 1953, Mom and Dad knelt together and the church laid hands on them both. He got a certificate and a title; she treasured the knowledge that she had been set apart to serve, secretly — until after I was ordained by another small Baptist church in 1981. They moved to Jordan and Lebanon and began a lifetime as Baptist missionaries in publishing and education. I was raised with a love and respect for Middle Eastern culture, traditions, language and even religion.

My childhood friend was Jumana, a Palestinian Muslim who taught me to pray with her sisters, often had supper with the Fullers, holding hands, giving thanks in the name of Jesus. Our friendship has made me a better Christian, and made Jumana a better Muslim. We continue to be sisters in faith; we pray for each other in love and respect.

I was a spiritually sensitive child, saved to follow Jesus at the age of 5. I asked many questions, however, and was not easy on Sunday school teachers. At the age of 11, two significant moments changed my life. In an adolescent angst, I threw myself on my bed in bitter tears, grieved at the knowledge that — as a girl — I would be obliged to choose between being faithful and being smart. I could not blindly accept without understanding. Finally, a campus minister in college encouraged me to think for myself, and liberated me to know that faith serves intellect as readily as the mind’s inquiry deepens faith. Looking back, that moment was my first call to ministry with young adults, who routinely struggle with that very dichotomy of mind and heart.

The second turning point was the first of four wars my family and I lived through, when bombers thundered overhead, diving, screaming, destroying the rock buildings of our city. Anti-aircraft guns answered from the field across the street, empty shells falling on our roof and garden. We seven sat in the hallway in the dark, terrified, bored, waiting. Much later, our neighbor Nizam (Jumana’s father), risked their lives by rescuing us from our home to theirs until we could be evacuated. 1967, 1970, 1973, and the Lebanese civil war from 1974 to 1991—these four wars shaped my entry into young adulthood with violence, hospitality, loss, heroism, narrow escapes, suffering and more questions. I came to Yale Divinity School to escape war, but with questions that burdened me: Why does a good God allow suffering? Why can people not live together in peace?

I discovered, in the search, that I — like my mother — was called to ministry, to be with those who ask the big questions of life — in the university. Conflict returned, in a church that invited me to follow Jesus, unless it included ordination (as a woman). Much later, I found my home in the Episcopal Church where the mind and heart are welcome, and where my gifts are embraced without a fight, and where respect of theological difference is a virtue.

I served students in two wonderful universities — Yale and Hollins. The opportunity — at Elon — to build bridges of understanding and respect across the very religious lines that divide and often define the terms of war is, in its own way, the culmination of my life’s journey. I am also privileged to share, here, with you.

My parents met in the registration line at seminary. Both had, in college, met international students from the Middle East, and felt called to missions. Their mutual interest for Arab peoples and cultures sealed the promise together.

When the little California Baptist church ordained my father in 1953, Mom and Dad knelt together and the church laid hands on them both. He got a certificate and a title; she treasured the knowledge that she had been set apart to serve, secretly — until after I was ordained by another small Baptist church in 1981. They moved to Jordan and Lebanon and began a lifetime as Baptist missionaries in publishing and education. I was raised with a love and respect for Middle Eastern culture, traditions, language and even religion.

My childhood friend was Jumana, a Palestinian Muslim who taught me to pray with her sisters, often had supper with the Fullers, holding hands, giving thanks in the name of Jesus. Our friendship has made me a better Christian, and made Jumana a better Muslim. We continue to be sisters in faith; we pray for each other in love and respect.

I was a spiritually sensitive child, saved to follow Jesus at the age of 5. I asked many questions, however, and was not easy on Sunday school teachers. At the age of 11, two significant moments changed my life. In an adolescent angst, I threw myself on my bed in bitter tears, grieved at the knowledge that — as a girl — I would be obliged to choose between being faithful and being smart. I could not blindly accept without understanding. Finally, a campus minister in college encouraged me to think for myself, and liberated me to know that faith serves intellect as readily as the mind’s inquiry deepens faith. Looking back, that moment was my first call to ministry with young adults, who routinely struggle with that very dichotomy of mind and heart.

The second turning point was the first of four wars my family and I lived through, when bombers thundered overhead, diving, screaming, destroying the rock buildings of our city. Anti-aircraft guns answered from the field across the street, empty shells falling on our roof and garden. We seven sat in the hallway in the dark, terrified, bored, waiting. Much later, our neighbor Nizam (Jumana’s father), risked their lives by rescuing us from our home to theirs until we could be evacuated. 1967, 1970, 1973, and the Lebanese civil war from 1974 to 1991—these four wars shaped my entry into young adulthood with violence, hospitality, loss, heroism, narrow escapes, suffering and more questions. I came to Yale Divinity School to escape war, but with questions that burdened me: Why does a good God allow suffering? Why can people not live together in peace?

I discovered, in the search, that I — like my mother — was called to ministry, to be with those who ask the big questions of life — in the university. Conflict returned, in a church that invited me to follow Jesus, unless it included ordination (as a woman). Much later, I found my home in the Episcopal Church where the mind and heart are welcome, and where my gifts are embraced without a fight, and where respect of theological difference is a virtue.

I served students in two wonderful universities — Yale and Hollins. The opportunity — at Elon — to build bridges of understanding and respect across the very religious lines that divide and often define the terms of war is, in its own way, the culmination of my life’s journey. I am also privileged to share, here, with you.

The Rev. Janet Fuller is the university chaplain for Elon Univerity and one of four rotating columnists on the Times-News Religion page. Readers may contact her at jfuller3@elon.edu